Silence Of The Woods - Royal Ferns

A colony of
Royal ferns, Osmunda regalis on a streamside in the woods, Phippsburg, Maine

The Still Cover

I'm deep in green

where the blue newts move

between wet leaves,

smooth, so cool.

Only sounds of dripping,

circles form on dark pools,

fronds, ferns unfurling, 

moss absorbing,

then the waterthrush's

fluted chortling

amidst the trees

leaves me settled serene

and deep,

deep within the green,

still cover.

............................................................................

    Since I was a little kid, I've loved these wet, secret places in the woods. Some people would find the enveloping stillness unnerving, but I have always been drawn by it. The quiet stirs a notion of promise and magic. When I breathe in the rich, pungent smell of decaying wood, I can conjure a fairy's life. The near absence of sound makes me listen harder for what might be there, rustling under the leaves, moving along the banks of the stream, or tip toeing through the mud. Did I see a deer pause, ears twitching through the leaves, then gone in a flash? Is there a giant, Spotted salamander snorkeling in the gloame? I could wish a golem in the gloom. The quiet seems filled with possibilities.

    My sister and I got lost in such a place when we were young. We followed a path, or so it seemed, until suddenly, there wasn't a path anymore. We looked around us and didn't know where to go. Everything looked the same: trees, bottomless pools of black water, mushrooms and tall ferns. Barely any light filtered through the trees. Looking upward, there were only cracks of sky. And it was silent.

     The greenery seemed to suck up all sound. We listened hoping to hear familiar, distant sounds - our dog barking, a lawnmower, a truck on a road, anything. But there was nothing. Even the sound of our own panicky breathing died around us.
     My father used to tell us that moss grew on the north sides of trees. If you looked for the moss, you’d know which way to go. North? What did north mean to an eight year old? There was moss on the trees; there was moss everywhere, matting every rock and fallen log in velvet green. No moss was going to tell us where to go. The moss did not speak. I thought about my plastic, Cracker Jack compass at home.
     Once, from a place like that, I captured a dozen Red-spotted newts. I put them in an aquarium with pads of moss I had peeled from rocks. I put in some stones and made a little pool in a bottle cap. I put in some tiny, emerald colored ferns and rotted sticks. I put in a Shelf mushroom making an ample roof, a sort of salamander pavilion. It seemed like a perfect home for the newts. I imagined a whole life for them in their microhabitat, or glass prison. It was a veritable village of newts, which I called salamanders.
     Newts and salamanders are basically the same thing. What they each came to be called has more to do with history and language than science. Newts are a subgroup of salamanders. All newts are salamanders, but not all salamanders are newts. A salamander is called a “newt” if it belongs to specific genera (I won’t bore you with the list). Generally, newts spend more of their lives in the water than salamanders; they have more distinctive differences between genders, and they have more complicated aquatic courtships. Now, wasn’t that a visual!
    There are 550 species of salamander in the world. The North American continent has more species of salamanders, including newts, than any other continent on earth. Maine has eight species. For those of you who say “I don’t like lizards,” salamanders are not lizards. On their front feet, they only have four toes; lizards have five.  Though there are no “blue newts” as in my poem, there is a Blue-spotted salamander in Maine. Most salamanders are lungless. They breathe through their skin which requires that their skin stay moist. For this reason, they are usually nocturnal and live under leaves and places where it’s damp. Many of them are vernal pool and wetland dwellers, places such as the photos above.
     After a while, I forgot about my salamanders. My father found my aquarium prison dried up and abandoned, for which he beat the shit out of me. That was fifty years ago and I still carry the guilt. The bulging eyes, tender toes and wide smiles of a newt give me pangs of pain. But, that dark little episode of my history is part of what lead me to become an amateur naturalist and nature photographer. The dark, damp places in the woods always makes me think of the brilliant, orange salamanders I tortured. I have a lot to make up for. Maybe they are what I listen for in the penetrating silence - signs of life.
     When my sister and I couldn’t find our way out of the woods, she started to cry. I was scared. I didn’t want her to know how scared I was too, terrified, in fact. So, I told her to shut up and quit crying. I knew that we had to figure it out on our own, that no one was going to help us. I knew that I had to figure it out, because I was the oldest. I listened hard for some sign, some sound that would guide us, but there was nothing. I smelled the air. Nothing.
    My sister was sitting on a pad of moss, sniffling. She had a trickle of blood oozing from a knee where she had fallen. A Blackfly had left a rude, purple welt in the corner of her eye and more were gathering. “Come on. Get up and get walking,” I ordered. It probably wasn’t long, though it seemed like eternity, when one of our family dogs showed up. Though we felt far, far away, we probably weren’t very far from home. It took some scrambling to keep up, but we followed the dog home.
     Decades later, I would hear on the news that a four year old boy was lost in the Maine woods to the north (August, 1975, Kurt Newton, Coburn Gorge, Maine). The biggest manhunt in the history of the State ensued to search for him. I was one of the searchers. I had to go. I couldn’t get my sister out of my head, her bloody knee, her bug bites, her futile crying. It was brutal, hot, hard hunting. Hundreds of searchers were all fly-bitten and bramble scratched. In the dense, damp woods searchers found bottle caps, cigarette butts and a wallet, all dropped by searchers who had gone before. And I saw a few salamanders, significant to only me. But, no little boy, and to this day, his disappearance has remained a mystery. I think every one of us wanted to be the one to find him and believed he would be found.
     I will remain forever haunted by that search, by the not finding. I’ve since had children of my own, whom I’ve raised safely to adulthood. I know that if I was that little boy’s mother, for the rest of my life, I would listen very closely when in the silent woods. 

Red-striped salamander, Phippsburg, Maine

Spotted Red newt

For more information on salamanders and newts, visit these sites.

http://www.maineherp.org/index.php?display=native_species&show=all

http://www.naturehaven.com/Frog/salamander.html

http://www.caudata.org/cc/faq/FAQgen.shtml

I am please to announce and honored that this post recieved the

OPEN SALON READER'S PICK AWARD ! For more, click on that link or the one below.

http://open.salon.com/blog/os_readers_picks/2012/06/03/os_readers_picks_third_awards#

Hot And Cold, Spring Snow

Andromeda japonica in spring snow.

March 28, 2012

    After a week of record breaking, summer like temperatures, it was a surprise to wake up to snow cover this morning. My first thought was "Flowers! Flowers in snow!" I leaped out of bed and ran out to my gardens, still wearing my bathrobe. Quickly, my feet froze in my open toed, house slippers. My robe trailed in the snow and mud. I hopped around like a cat in water, trying to keep my feet from sinking into the snow as I pranced from one lovely vignette to another. I was enraptured in the glory of those tender blooms in crowns of snow.

      My husband hollered from the safety of a window, "What the hell are you doing out there?" Inarguably, I looked like a lunatic escaped from an asylum. Ignoring him, I kept photographing until the wind whipped up. My robe was blown in the air flinging mud with it and frigid air around my legs. My feet were soaked. I picked a trail of windblown hair from my mouth. When all of the snow blew off the flowers, I called it quits. Then, I heard water running.    

     Having grown up in houses with ancient, unstable plumbing, the sound of running water provokes P.T.S.D. symptoms for me. My first thought is always a strong "Oh No! What's wrong now?" Hurrying toward the sound, I was relieved to see that the source was just my husband, stark naked in his outdoor shower. Yes, we did  have snow; yes, the wind was howling; and yes, I still had the camera in my hands. And I did photograph him in all of  his glory, though his crown was suds, not snow. You may insert the smiley face here, or whatever other image you conjured. But, the details will remain between us. 

Siberian squill with snow on its crown

Pink Andromeda japonica in snow

pulmonaria, or Lung wort bud in snow

A blue variety of pulmonaria in the snow. Pulmonaria is also called Lung wort. In days of yore, it was used medicinally to cure respiratory ailments, like pneumonia. My grandmother would have said of David in his shower, and me in my robe in the out of doors, "You'll catch your death out there!" She need not worry. Once I'm done I'll just brew up some Lung wort tea. 

If you would like to see more images of spring time in Maine, click here.

This post is an Editor's Pick on Open Salon (click here for more on OS) It is the sixteenth of my works to be so chosen. Thank you, OS!

FLYday - Osprey

Osprey, or "Fish Hawk" in hover flight. Phippsburg, Maine May 2011

FLYday is an homage to what our feathered friends do best, fly.

"March" - Northern Harrier

Northern Harrier, also known as a "Marsh Hawk," hunting across a salt marsh on the Atlantic coast

"March"

At the tail end of the winter
March plods
through endless dour days
marked by brownish gloom.

While beneath the cold earth's floor
the secret songs
of flowers
are building to a roar.

Spring fed - suddenly
the crocus blooms
Shouts out
"Wake up! Wake up!"

The yellow faces yell
"Bend down
and kiss me!"
Take in the lemon smell.

The sun will shine,
the warmth will come
then we will all be well.

Robin R Robinson

..............................................................................................................................................

   Yesterday, it soared to 65 degrees here with a warm, southerly breeze. Portland, Maine set a record breaking 68. I worked in my gardens for hours for the first time since last fall. It felt so good! As if by magic, the first crocuses of the year popped out of the ground. While I clipped, pruned, raked and hauled debris, more and more of them opened before my eyes. They escorted me by the hand to this sappy verse.
     This morning, before I opened my eyes, I felt cold air. Through the window came the cool, blue light of falling snow.

Mania

These spring days in April are wonderfully tantalizing. Though there is a bite in the harsh winds left from winter, the sun is delicious. It's strong and warm, like a good yellow mustard that surprises you in a sandwich. Everything is coming alive and gathering strength for the full roar of summer. During the winter, I would look out of the windows and count a day's meager ration of birds, a few chickadees, a couple of nuthatches. A good day might have brought a flurry of Pine siskins, though plentiful, dull in color. Now, suddenly the birds are everywhere! And the colors are astonishing - bright yellow Goldfinches, red Cardinals, even the Blue Jays look bluer. Black and white birds, like these Common Eiders are sharply contrasty in checkerboard feathers. Chasing after one another, they kick up silver splashes of water like fist-fulls of diamonds thrown across the surface. The hens dive and hustle away, sometimes biting back to keep the drakes at bay. I don't know why some of them don't just drown from exhaustion. The whole world has erupted in frenzied colors and displays. "Look! We're here!" shout the flowers and the birds. After a winter of listlessness, I feel full of energy, too. It's very easy to overdo with a rake.When I start cleaning out gardens it seems as if I've got to do it all at once, to make room for the tender little shoots to push toward the sun. Each day, something new comes up. The face of the garden changes as often as every few hours. I don't want to miss a thing because I left it too long to languish in last year's brown debris. David is positively intoxicated with the elixir of longer days, too. He has already painted one side of the house, put in a new kitchen faucet and painted a set of Adirondak chairs. He has a spectacular energy level; it's like living with a chipmunk. He wakes before first light and begins hauling tools out for projects. He'll start to trim with hand clippers, see a bigger shrub that requires the larger Electric Man Pruners, get those out along with five miles of extension cords, tangle them all over the yard, get out a step ladder, then an extension ladder, pull all the rakes out of the shed looking for a spade, leave half a bag of fertilizer on the front steps, and a tarp for leaves to be snatched by the wind. While doing this, he will have put on a ball cap, taken it off and thrown it into a chair, replaced it with a second one and repeated this process until there are six or seven of them scattered around the property. A little 'Wife Game' I play with myself is to count how many of them I put back on the rack every day. A good day is at least six. In a full blown thrash, he's been going at this pace nonstop for two weeks. At sixty three, he does not understand why he is tired already and it's not yet Memorial Day. Today, in response to his dismay at being exhausted, I did something I've never done before; I took away his tools. That had the effect of throwing a bucket of water on a flaming squirrel. Smoldering, he continued to run around, more aimlessly, but with plenty of energy. Now, I'll have to come up with another plan just to keep him from hurting himself. In the mean time, I will watch the antics of the birds, the flowers unfolding, and the skies for possible rain.

"Hey! Beat it! That's my girl!"









"Listen, both of you clowns back off!"

The Psycho Season

Spring, ‘The Psycho Season’ is upon us. I wish it would just make up its mind and stay sunny and warm. But, oh no, one day it’s fifty and I’m thinking about applying sunscreen to my face; then the next, it’s twenty-five and snowing. The day I took the photo of the crocuses in the snow, it had been in the low fifties. Those sunny, dear little flowers emerged opening their faces to skyward. They were so naïve. WHAM! The next day, we had a blizzard that dropped a foot of wet, heavy snow and buried them. I thought for sure that they would be crushed, probably done for - much like I was. How does a person plan a wardrobe when the weather does this every year? Not that I plan a wardrobe. It’s just that I do so admire women who have seasonal wardrobes. It sounds so grown up. In summer, they pack away winter clothes and vice versa. Me? I have to have all of my clothing available at all times. Had I put away my winter attire when that blizzard hit, I would have been flapping around yelling “The sky is falling!” in a tank top. A tank top? Now that’s wishful thinking! If I had been wearing a garment as absurd as that, my sagging upper arms would surely have knocked senseless any passerby. I’ve never had a healthy body image, but spring brings out the worst of my neurosis. As the trend toward warmer days becomes more consistent and I get busier in the garden, I start to shed layers of clothing. Down vests, fleeces, doubled-up socks come off. They aren’t far way, only shed along the way toward full blown summer. Like the skin of a snake that has rubbed its body past rocks and sticks, my clothing can be found in chairs, slung over the newel post, hung on door knobs from one end of the house to the other.
Three days ago, I went outside in full, cold spring weather regalia and started pulling weeds. There was a biting north west wind coming across the water, but the sun was high in the sky. Working up a sweat, I started to peel off layers of clothes. I tossed a fleece over the passenger’s side rear view mirror of my car. Later, having forgotten about the fleece, I decided to take a run to the post office. When I turned out of the driveway onto the main road and picked up speed, in my peripheral vision I caught a great black flapping movement that scared the be-Jesus out of me. For an instant, I thought there was an eagle on my car. But, that was wishful thinking. How can I hope to be less erratic if the planet isn’t? I swell and shrink just like the planet, too. Just how much I swell is obvious every time I bend over to pull weeds. I think I might pass out! Over the winter, I’ve gotten fat. One advantage to a climate where bulky clothing is required is the degree of denial it affords. In the fall, as the clothes pile on, it creeps up on me - evil little fat monsters sneaking up and jumping onto my body, clinging to me until spring. Then, when the sun comes out, they are revealed. As my activity increases, they fall off, but for a while, I have to live with them. Secretly, sometimes, I’m thankful when the weather turns foul along the way to summer. I can put clothes back on, cover up my monsters, and sit and write.

Spring's a Comin'!

This is a short (under 7 minutes) video I put together. It's of my gardens in Mid Coast Maine in the months of June and July. I do all of the gardening. My husband is my slave labor. I made this video because right now, there is snow all over the ground. Where there isn't snow, there is treacherous ice. It's the time of year when the sun is feeling really warm and inviting, but dare yea who ventures out! It's still very cold. The wind is biting and takes the fun out of the sun's seeming invitation. At this time of year, I have metamorphosed totally into a house fly. I become one of those fat, lazy ones that buzzes idly around, crawling on the windows. They always seem like they should be easy to kill, but they're not. I can attest to that having tried to swat lots of them. Plus, I'm still here. Like the swollen, blue flies, I don't like to go outside. I like to move around inside the house, following the path of the sun. Only to fill the bird feeders do I scurry out, mindful of the deadly ice, always there to claim a hip, a wrist or some other vital part of me lest I skid on it. That has happened to me before, too. I've slipped and sent buckets of bird seed flying into the stratosphere to rain back down on me as I cursed. I've yet to break anything, but my life passes before my eyes anticipating that I will. Long after my heart stopped pounding and I'd caught my breath, I was still picking the seeds out of my hair and from inside my bra. It's a good thing that Cosmo Kramer from Seinfeld didn't live here. I felt like he looked when he'd fly into a room, arms and legs everywhere before he came to an abrupt stop. Had he tried that maneuver on the ice in my driveway he would have broken into a million pieces. And his hair would have held onto bird seed for perpetuity. I have hair like his. I know.
Today, I ventured out across the yard to fill a feeder and throw some corn around. As I minced my way across what looks like old fashioned boiled frosting, I noticed tracks of deer mixed in with turkeys. The turkey tracks are so big they look like teradactyls were stomping around out there. The deer have come right to the side of the house to chew shrubs, in spite of the dogs (aforementioned useless bums). They have stood on their hind legs to tip a suspended bird feeder on end to get to the seed. That's how hungry they are. I suppose that there is lawn under the glistening sheen where now, only a Zamboni should dare to tread. I have to take that on some faith, faith that the grass will eventually green up, faith that my chewed magnolia will recover, faith that the deer won't starve to death. I have to have faith that I won't be killed outright, or at least suffer a million broken bones, while out doing a good thing for creatures other than myself. I have to have faith that under the snow, the crocuses are squeezing their way upward toward the sun. That's really why I made the video. Sometimes, my fears overshadow my faith and I need a reminder.